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Charley Mack, Publicly a Crow, Has His Own Private Bulldog
THOSE who wish to observe a black crow in his native habitat may read this story to some purpose. It's an idyllic tale. Charley Mack may be a black crow in professional life, but he's practically a bluebird in his own home. In his own indolent fashion, against a background of palm trees and peacocks, Mr. Mack is sitting back and relishing the fruits of his enormous success.
I found him sitting on his wide back porch, which is, practically speaking, the living-room of the Mack estate in Beverly Hills. The house is conveniently built around it, in such a way that when Mr. Mack wants something, all he has to do is call one of his menials in a loud voice.
"And then," he says, "they come when they want to." The Mack household is immensely leisurely and casual, in accordance with its master's philosophy of life. He isn't so very far removed in spirit from the Mack of black-face fame. Mr. Mack is mild, kindly, and slightly rotund. He has a dry humor, detected less in what he says than in that lazy voice — a modification of the weary tones of the Black Crow. He's not so tired of it all — in fact, he surveys the world with a very pleased air, but with a continuous unworried and unruffled calm.
He was sitting with his parrot and his architect, examining some blueprints of a town he is building twenty-six miles from Hollywood.
"We're calling it Crowtown," he said. "That's all they're going to know about us up there, but I think it's kind of a cute name."
By ELISABETH GOLDBECK
Experience has taught Mr Mack not to let the residents know too much about him. For years he's been building houses, in various towns. In most of them he has a house of his own. "And it's a funny thing," he said. "People buy the houses because they know I live there. So I nave to go every so often and appear on the porch to satisfy the residents."
As he has real estate developments scattered all over the country, it keeps him pretty busy traveling from porch to porch.
The parrot was getting bored with blueprints.
"Mr. Mack! Mr. Mack!" he screamed, hoping to get some attention.
"Pretty little baby!" Mr. Mack replied gallantly.
"He can say 'Why bring that up.^' too, ' he explained. "Of course, I want him to keep saying it all the time, but he only says it about once a month."
Mr. Mack's eyes have an amused light in them almost continually. It may be just a sort of stock twinkle, to protect him from the charges of excessive egotism that nave often been hurled at him. But I would swear it's genuine. He is an egotist, beyond a doubt. He has a tremendous, and pardonable, pride in his own achievements and the things they've brought him. He'll tell you about his business acumen. He'll tell you that Moran and Mack are the only dialect black-face comedians who were ever able to make New York laugh.
{Continued on page 92)
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